


unhidden

by memento_amare



Series: snapshots in time [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Romance, Slow Romance, kita is the perfect man :(, reader is scared of reciprocity, set in meiji era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memento_amare/pseuds/memento_amare
Summary: yours is a quiet kind of love. quiet enough that it passes even your knowledge, quiet enough that you even attempt to write it off entirely.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Reader
Series: snapshots in time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029228
Comments: 6
Kudos: 96





	unhidden

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhh hello it's been a while since I posted here on ao3 :( I'm way more active on Tumblr hhhhh I hope to cross-post more fics on here but for now, if you need me, I'm at @/voxamcris !! thank u :)

the first to catch on is aran. it’s the staring that does it. 

he sees the little moments when kita’s eyes flicker to you, or the soft countenance of his gaze as he watches you practice your _tsuburi_ in the courtyard.

it’s been going on for quite a while now.

“yer starin’ at her.” kita doesn’t even deny it.

“perhaps.” you wave at them, a light sheen of sweat coating your brow. it catches the glint of the setting sun. the golden rays catch on your hair, too, and you glow, almost ethereal in the light. his face lights up in return as he waves back, albeit quieter. more subtle.

the doctor just sighs. he didn’t actually come here for anything; kita’s shoulder has already healed. if anything, he just came as a friend. “you don’t have to keep torturin’ yerself. it’s hurting her too.” he bows before he leaves.

kita ponders on his friend’s words as he continues to observe your training.

\--

“how is your shoulder, kita-san?” you hand him rice and a bowl of miso soup. “you hurt it pretty badly sparring with ōmimi-kun.” 

he gives it an experimental roll, the cloth of his _kosode_ shifting in the candlelight. you watch him intently.

“it’s good as new.” 

you smile, relieved. “ojiro-kun’s poultices always work wonders for me. i’m glad it helped you as well.” 

“not as well as your nursing and these hot meals, l/n-san.”

a frown forms over your features, and your eyes grow heavy with guilt. “please. i was there, and i should have seen it coming.”

“it was an accident,” he placates, but you shake your head.

“i should have seen it coming,” you repeat. your eyes shift from his shoulder to his eyes, holding his gaze. there has always been a quiet intensity to you, a determination not unlike his own. 

his fingers curl around the bowl that you had given him, watching the ripples distort his reflection. he looks up at you, warm and gentle.

“you’ve done enough,” he says firmly. “that i can promise.”

\--

it was your father that took him in: a lost soul looking for work that did not involve his family’s sword. 

he stayed even when your father passed, two years later. your father left you the property with the request that you continue your family tradition, asking from kita especially that he would take care of his daughter.

he does not claim ownership of the _dojo_ (you offered, knowing that a man’s hold over the land would make your lives easier), instead supporting your father’s name and your own strength.

the two of you living together while unmarried raises a lot of eyebrows, but you won’t allow the tainting of your _dojo_ ’s reputation. being a woman was hard enough among male competition, and even mere suspicion will bring you both underwater.

_(moreover…)_

“someone left another basket of pears for you,” you pop your head into the kitchen. “i think it’s from sumiko-san again.” 

he hums. “akagi’s orphanage could use some sweets.” in front of him, the pot of vegetables continues to simmer, filling the air with a pleasant aroma. you watch him stir the gently bubbling stew before raising the ladle and tilting it to his lips.

“she’s been sending them the past couple of weeks.”

“if it’s the fruit that's the problem, we have enough apples from your orchard. i like those more.” he turns to look at you then, sincere and warm.

your heart flutters, and you cull the hope before it begins to bloom. it won’t do well to place metaphors on things you know could be his simple honesty.

it’s moments like these that you cannot shake: fingers grazing yours over a warm cup of tea, or clothes already hung without you asking. sometimes you awake to one of his _haori_ draped over your frame, realizing that you fell asleep in the afternoon after a harsh day of lessons. 

it’s the things you hide away, locked in the deepest recesses of your heart, seeds that you refuse to let into the light.

_(…it is something you aren’t worthy of.)_

“…alright. i’ll drop by akagi’s later today then. and apologize to sumiko-san.”

his features soften. “i can talk to sumiko-san. just worry about the pears.”

\--

you don’t dare call it love; this feeling that blooms away from prying eyes. it grows in fleeting glances and passing conversations, its fruit the timid blush that ripens on the apples of your cheeks.

you push it down, burying the seeds of your affection in the darkness. it feels like cheating on the woman you have yet to meet; some thievery of a man you are unworthy of loving.

when that person comes (and they will), you will swallow down every affection you hold, burying the fleeting intimacies away as a fever dream to be remembered only as a passing fantasy.

(yet selfishly, you still savor every moment you still have with him, and wish that perhaps, things could be different.)

\--

when kita announces that he wishes to court someone, you choke over your rice.

“r-really?” he nods.

“i think it’s long overdue.” you set your bowl down, letting your chopsticks rest atop it. your heart sinks. 

there is something tender yet aloof about kita: a gentle presence, yet also impossibly distant. you see it in his countenance now, and truly, the day you’ve been dreading is right before you.

“should we schedule an _omiai_? i don’t know any matchmakers, but perhaps ojiro-kun or akagi would. and we may need photographs… i can help you make your _rerikisho_ , too-“

“l/n-san,” he interrupts. “will you marry me?”

\--

the _dojo_ ’s smell is a mix of sharp soap, wooden varnish, and fresh sweat. 

it is quiet. the air shifts. he moves.

your swords clap together. you shift to the side, parrying his blow to your middle before following it with two quick strikes of your own. he dodges both with fluid grace. 

it goes on for a while until you both end up at a stalemate, the side of your _bokken_ grazing his neck while his wooden tip grazes right over your heart.

you’re both panting softly, and you manage a grin in his direction before lowering your weapon.

“you’re right. your shoulder is good as new.” 

his sword dips to rest at his side. “all thanks to you and ojiro-san.” his posture says he’s tired, yet his small smile is warm as it always is. his hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, and his gaze is soft and trained on you. 

you catch yourself before you smile.

(“i-i’m sorry?” any thoughts of an _omiai_ come to a screeching halt.

“will you marry me?” he repeats.

your pulse hammers in your ears, fingers clammy even over the heat of your teacup. it takes you awhile before you respond again. “i-i don’t understand.” you train your eyes over your murky reflection, not daring to look up.

“are you sure you don’t?” your ears burn at his reply. it’s a blatant acknowledgment of what has been going on between you, every carefully hidden feeling unearthed in one fell gust of wind.

“i… i don’t know.” you wring your hands together. “if this is some promise that my father has forced out of you, or some kind of obligation you feel-“

“obligation? is that what you think this is?” hurt flashes in his eyes. 

a crossroads is before you. a choice.

you don’t speak for three, painful seconds. in this time, you forcibly bury your feelings again, choking down the hope that threatens to grow with each shovelful of dirt. the pieces of your heart are hidden beneath an unmarked grave. 

“… yes.” you lie through your teeth.)

you turn away from him, returning the _bokken_ on the walls. kita frowns, head dipping ever so slightly, but he does the same. the sounds of wooden swords echoing across the _dojo_ is replaced by your cleaning rags wiping the wooden floorboards.

no other words are exchanged. 

\--

kita openly refuses the gifts that are left outside your home now, not letting you bring them in. he visits the women himself, bowing deeply, thanking them for their offers, but telling them he cannot accept their advances.

over dinner, he fills in the silence, initiating conversation in your place. when you pour him tea, you retract your hands before they brush his, and your heart breaks at the tiny frown that crosses his face every time. but he doesn’t speak. 

he takes a little more chores, cuts you a little more fruit. 

and, as though a final blow against your steadily wilting will, he still softly wishes you sweet dreams every night. 

you don’t mean to hurt him when you shy away: he’s nothing but wonderful, industrious, and tactful, always there before you even need to ask.

he would act differently if you wish it: if you say so, he would try to move on and marry someone else. but more than that (and you don’t know who you hate more for it, him or you), is the hope that he continues to hold out for you, that you would change your mind.

kita is simply _too_ perfect for you: a masterpiece that you’re happy to enjoy, but one that isn’t yours to keep. 

you just don’t want to bury any more shrapnel of your broken heart.

\--

you remain quiet as he hands you your cup of miso soup, accepting it as he sets it on the table near you. 

(no longer does he let his fingers brush yours.)

there is a marked tension in the air, stifling and uncomfortable. and kita—kind, frank, honest kita—tries to ease it the best he can.

“how is aran?” you look up from your tea.

“he’s alright. said he had a lot of orders this week.”

(aran greets you with a smile, amicably initiating a chat as you request for your usual healing salve and herbs. for some reason, though, the conversation drifts to your house companion.

“what’s stoppin’ you? ya loved him for years now.” you flush, darkly.

“he’s… he’s a man of duty,” you choose your words carefully, “he stayed to fulfill my father’s dying wish. that’s all it is.”

“you think he does it out of duty?” he comes down from the stool. you purse your lips, conflicted. his voice cuts through your thoughts.

“pretty sure starin’ at you with lovey-dovey eyes isn’t part of duty,” he remarks, handing your order with a teasing smile.)

you didn’t place much thought on it before, but aran voicing it out just makes your heart flutter all over again. you observe kita more closely over the rim of your cup. his gaze is just a fraction more tender than his normal one, soft at the edges with affection (but also a cautious guardedness that has been there for the past few days).

this scene—well, all meals really—calls back to that fateful proposal. each day that has passed since is a continuous downpour of emotions, and you are well and truly about to overflow.

unbidden, the words fall from your mouth. “why me?”

“hm?”

the hand gripping your chopstick tremors ever so slightly. “you… are not tied to this place. there are other people, better chances-” you hear the sound of a bowl being set on the table.

the meal is forgotten as he shifts, closing the distance between you. gently, he encases your hands in his. 

everything about him is so _warm:_ his hands, his gaze, and the quiet cadence of his voice as he begins to explain. “it was not your father who requested me to stay.”

“w-what?”

“there is no obligation,” he clarifies. “it was my own vow.”

“but…” you falter. “why?”

“you must know why.” a pause. his voice is soft, yet the words are an arrow straight to your heart. “is it so surprising that i love you as you love me?”

he cuts into the real reason of your answer, the core of your resistance to his proposal. you refuse to believe in the notion of being loved, that someone—kita, of all people—would view you with the same sort of wonder that you do him.

“i-i’m sorry.” you take a deep breath. “you’re right. i loved you assuming that it would never happen. and i didn’t let it happen,” you continue, referring to his proposal, “because i didn’t want to chain you somewhere you may not have wanted to be.”

in the candlelight, his amber eyes glow like lit charcoal. before his gaze, you feel utterly exposed. but he holds no judgment, only a quiet sort of fire. warm. his voice remains as soft as it was earlier.

“if your answer does not change, you will hear nothing more from me on the matter, and i will leave if you wish. 

“but if i may, i will ask you once again.” you wait with bated breath.

“will you marry me?” his gaze is soft, impossibly so, warm and kind and so so sincere that you feel on the verge of melting right then and there.

he has bared his heart to you in return of him knowing yours, and you have no reason to hide anymore. not when he looks at you like that. it’s love, and though you still are in disbelief, you can dare to call it such, at the very least. 

“yes,” you whisper. “yes, i-it would be my honor.” he raises your joined hands, pressing your fingers to his lips. 

“the honor is all mine,” he replies, eyes radiant, and that which has bloomed in the shadows is well and truly in the light now.

it’s love, and you realize that no matter what darkness you plunge your feelings into, kita’s warmth will still make them grow. 


End file.
